The Birth of a Monster: Hector Barbossa's Tale
by catgirlutah
Summary: Have you ever wondered why Hector Barbossa goes only by Barbossa? Have you ever wondered if he had any past at all? Have you ever wondered why he likes apples so much? Read and find out! And review, please!


**Disclaimer**: I do not have the permission to use any of Disney's characters. I'm doing this because I'd go even more insane otherwise. That's my reasoning and I'm sticking to it. Don't worry, I won't try to ever get it published, so it doesn't matter.

**AN (11/3)**: Boo! I've un-disappeared again… Sort of. Had to get this story out of my head, what can I say? Anyway, you should like it. Maybe not. How would I know, I haven't finished it yet? And I'm not you, either. But…yeah. I hope you enjoy it and I hope you review it or I might decide to disappear once more…

**Chapter One: Out to Sea**

A stiff and fiercely cold wind decided it would rather inhabit the sleepy township of Fairgarden than migrate to wear it belonged in northern Asia. With each gust, leaves scattered about like snow, slapping unsuspecting farmers in their red faces as they struggled to get the last of their crops in before frost claimed the lives of whatever vegetation was still standing. Women stood inside of miserably small homes trying to not choke on the smoke staying inside from the fire they were cooking the evening meal on while tending to the cries and squabbles of youngsters who disliked the biting wind running through their hair and up their noses. The older children were out doing something useful, gathering wood for the fire, helping gather crops, or merely begging the local gentry for some sort of warm pastry or bread to satiate the gnawing hunger constantly driving them to move. Surely the vicar of the region realized what a miserable state his smelly little flock was in today! It had turned unexpectedly cold last week after a dreary rainstorm and it had stayed cold.

While the cold was a minor inconvenience for the wealthy, who were tucked away safely in the comfort of their homes, the poor were wretched. The elderly were already starting to die off like trapped butterflies and the freezing fingers of death were headed towards the youngest members of the lowest class next. While devastating to the poor mother of the sickly children, the death of a youngster truly was a release as well as a way to conserve food through the upcoming winter months. The weak impoverished people were being thinned out.

Inside of a small sod hut, nature and fate were doing just that. The only bed in the one room shelter was occupied by a female clearly on death's doorstep. Her brown hair, normally quite beautiful and full of life, hung limply around her sallow face, clumping and knotting as it went along. Her sparkling brown eyes were resigned to be sunken specks of pain amongst a pallid skin color that seemed surreal. A bead of sweat clung to her brow and the smell of death was about her. She moved from time to time, writhing in pain as some sort of monster ravaged her body from the inside.

It would be a far lesser tragedy if she had been able to see even twenty summers. Alas, the poor wretch had only lived for eleven years. She looked about the size of a seven year old, due to malnutrition and stunted growth. And she was moaning in agony as a harried-looking woman who had once been portly with similar brown eyes darted back and forth between the measly fire with a small pot of soup above, her sick daughter, and the babe lying on the floor. She was overworked and underappreciated, churning out child after child to a man who didn't earn enough to feed just themselves. She made do with nothing. Such was the lot of women, though, so she didn't even bother complaining. It would accomplish nothing; her admitting that she was ill as well would just put her other children's lives at risk.

"Where's Hector?" the child piteously asked, her childish voice particularly high as she struggled to make sounds with her moans. As she said the name, however, a slight sparkle seemed to return to her feverish eyes as she managed to peer anxiously up at her mother. Hector was her beloved elder brother; he was her protector, her confidant, her world. Before this most recent illness, they'd been inseparable. Somehow they had managed to have some fun in such a dismal life; somehow they'd been able to scrape together a passable enough childhood for both of them. Hector had always been there for her, had always protected her from the drunken rages of their father who decided that forgetting about his own troubles momentarily was better than feeding his seven children.

"I don' know," her mother lied softly, gently pressing her flaccid hand to her daughter's forehead. She recoiled reflexively. Her daughter was burning up and dying before her eyes and she couldn't do anything about it. "I don' know," she repeated, a hint of a tear to her left eye. That was all she could afford to shed for her daughter and son. At least her daughter was getting out of the whole mess before she got stuck like her mother. The cycle of poverty was hard to break and it seemed very unlikely any man with means would take a liking to the daughter of a dirt farmer.

"Oh." The crestfallen look on the child's face was almost too much to handle and the mother found herself looking away abruptly. "Tell him vat I wont to see him if 'e comes back."

"I will," the tired woman said gently, squeezing her daughter's hand. She now could see why Hector decided to run away without even a note of explanation (of course, she wouldn't be able to read the note, had he left one) or a word. He couldn't stand seeing his lively sister slowly die before his eyes.

* * *

"Wot are you doin' in 'ere?" a harsh voice from an even harsher man demanded, grabbing a skinny young boy by the wrist and pulling him up as the room swayed from left to right. "Those apples ain't for you," he snarled as he smacked the child across the cheek. "Bloody stowaways." 

"I was just 'ungry," the boy replied indignantly, anger flashing momentarily in his light brown eyes as he glared up at the wizened sailor holding still holding onto his wrist. In one of his small, grubby hands was an apple. It looked quite delicious, as it was perfectly round and a tempting shade of green… The poor lad hadn't had a decent meal all of his life and hadn't had anything to eat since stowing away on this ship a week ago. He'd been too afraid to come down to the hold to find something to eat. He thought he could go for as long as he wanted to without eating since he wasn't doing anything that would require any sort of energy whatsoever… Of course, he was just a lad full of unique ideas as to how the world really worked.

"So? Them apples are for the crew, not bilge rats like 'e." There was a sinister glow to the man's eyes as he tightened his grip on the boy's wrist. "Come on, then. Cap'n would love to have a few words wif a stowaway like 'e."

The boy's eyes widened as he was dragged towards the captain's quarters above deck. He hadn't considered what would happen if he were discovered. All he knew was that he couldn't stand living in absolute poverty a moment longer and that he'd once heard there was plenty of work across the Atlantic. So, being a resourceful young scamp, he'd stowed away on a ship bound for anywhere but East when the harbormaster wasn't looking. Having no education whatsoever, the young man hadn't realized that it would take so long to cross. The small crust of bread he'd taken from home was gone before he'd even reached a city with a dock.

The small glimmer of fear disappeared entirely when he was pulled inside of the captain's quarters of the merchant carrier. It was ornately decorated; a large and expensive-looking desk was in the center of the cabin. Silks were draped around the ornately carved chairs and all sorts of foods were on the table of the rather pudgy man the boy assumed was the captain. He was dressed nearly as fine as his cabin, save for the chocolate smear on his cheek. "What is it?" he asked with a disdainful voice as he continued to eat, rather than look at the sailor now in his quarters.

"A stowaway," the sailor practically spat, shoving the boy forward. "Found 'im eating apples. Smells somethin' horrid."

"I can tell that," the captain replied with an even more disdainful voice as he was forced to look up from his meal. He eyed the young boy carefully for a moment and waved a pudgy arm towards the other man. "I will deal with the child, Matthew. Get back to doing inventory in the hold."

"Aye aye, sir," the man said, frowning as he saluted. He left the cabin muttering, "Me name's Mark, though."

"Come here, child," the captain said a few moments later after he watched the door close. "I promise not to kill you, though you must understand what you've done is quite serious."

The boy obeyed obediently, stepping closer to the table where the captain was sitting. "It wos jus' an apple."

"Yes, well, that isn't what I'm talking about," the captain said with a slightly indulgent smile. He had a son about the same age as this young boy that he hadn't seen for quite some time… "What is your name, son?"

"Hector," came the simple reply as the boy stared around the room again.

"Hector, why did you run away from home?" the captain asked, glancing back towards his food with longing.

"Me father…was a beast. Me sister is dyin'. No money." Hector shrugged slightly and glanced back towards the captain. "Plus I've always wan'ed t' see the sea." There was a hint of soberness to his light eyes and a touch of idolatry. How could a man be so rich? He'd never seen so much food in one place for one person or even one family in all of his thirteen years.

"Lamentable," the captain replied with forced sympathy as he momentarily glanced towards the food on the table. He didn't like being disturbed while eating; it was one of the few pleasures still left to the man. "But you shouldn't have solved it by running away and stowing away on _my_ ship."

"I'm sorry, sir," Hector said with false humility as he glanced towards the food on the captain's table as well. It looked absolutely delicious; the smell of it was enough to make him salivate as he shifted a bit uncomfortably on his feet. "I din' know it was bad."

"Of course you didn't," the captain replied with a slight sigh. "That's always the story of stowaways. Of course, I do believe you. You probably haven't been around money enough to realize that it is a necessary thing in this world." He took a bite out of a large piece of chicken, slathering grease all over his lips and cheeks. "Unfortunately, there will always be disparity between the two classes. The rich will always be rich, the poor will always be poor." He swallowed, making a guttural noise resembling a pig. "Unless, of course, the poor are willing to work hard." He wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his hand and glanced towards Hector again. "Are you willing to work hard, Hector?"

"Yes sir," Hector replied as he stared at the small piece of chicken skin hanging from the corner of the captain's mouth.

"Well, then, we need a new cabin boy. Our last one fell ill while cleaning the kitchen, I believe. I can't remember…but you are welcome to take his position." He smiled in a paternal way.

Hector smiled slightly and shifted uncomfortably on his feet. He wasn't sure what to say to the captain. Why was a man as rich as he talking to a little stowaway?

"Unless, of course, you'd rather me toss you overboard," the captain added dryly.

Hector Barbossa was no fool; he knew he needed to snatch good chances before they melted away like snow on a hot day. "I could be a cabin boy, sir."

"Good," the captain replied. He waved one of his greasy hands at Hector. "Go down to the galley and talk to the cook. He'll tell you what to do." Then he went back to his meal and gave no further thought to the nearly emaciated young child.


End file.
